I Called Him Necktie Read Free

see he was weeping. It was a suppressed weeping, and I alone was his witness. The embarrassment continued: Who weeps in broad daylight? Who reveals himself to that extent? And not only to himself, but to me, the observer! He shouldn’t weep, not in front of me. He should be behind closed doors. He should know that. That weeping is a private matter. I shuddered at the memory of a squashed body on the asphalt. Dreadful. To stand nearby, dumb with shock. The white hand, strangely bent, pointed at me. Of all the bystanders, at me. I wanted to be blind. The sirens of the rescue vehicle blared at me. Never again, I swore to myself, would I share the pain ofothers. He should know that. That weeping and dying are private matters.
15
    The sound of him clearing his throat. He pulled himself together. At first his chin quivered, then it became still and he didn’t blink. With a cigarette between his lips, he went behind the bushes. A zipper whizzed open and closed again, twigs crackled. I had seen too much. Even before he got back, I was on my feet and had run away. Out of the park, beyond the intersection, past Fujimoto’s general store. Home. Into my room. The click of the lock. I was in a safe place. As dust whirled, I drew the curtains shut.
    The next morning I slept longer than usual. I heard the alarm clock ringing next door, stayed in bed, went to sleep again. I dreamed of an invisible thread robbing me of air. I finally woke up gasping. Nothing had happened. Guided by this principle - nothing had happened - and its corollaries - nothing happens, nothing will ever happen - I went on my way.
    As I entered the park he sat bent over his newspaper. Beside him his empty bento box. He was snoring. Spread on his knees, the Giants and the secret of their success, I read, creeping past him. He had undone his tie. It dangled loose round his neck. Hair crumpled at the back. I gave in. And that too was a decision. To give in, and give him, sleeping there, a name. It had gone that far, I gave him a name. Not Honda. Not Yamada. Not Kawaguchi. I simply called him Necktie. The name suited him. Redandgray.
16
    So, Necktie.
    It is the tie that wears you, not the other way around. Later that was a joke between us. The tie wears you. At which he smiled, then laughed, a great roar broke out. You are right. It’s a mistake to think that I’m the one who wears it. I don’t wear anything, nothing at all. At which point he broke off abruptly, then fell silent, stayed silent. If I could have foreseen this silence, I would have given him a different name. Yet it was worth it, for the sake of his laugh, the laughter that preceded the silence. He laughed much too seldom.
    The name binds me to him. Like the vague sympathy beforehand, I began to feel a vague responsibility. To be with him, not to leave him alone. It’s grotesque to feel responsibility for a person about whom you could no longer just say: I would recognize him again. Rather: I know him. I know how he breathes, when he sleeps. The name entangled me. I no longer felt the freedom to simply get up and leave. That a name should possess such power.
17
    Two weeks passed. He appeared every Monday, exactly at nine, every Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday. He only stayed away on weekends. I missed him then. I had gotten so used to his presence that in his absence my presence in the park seemed somehow pointless. Without him and the questions he posed, I was a question mark with no purpose. There it is on a sheet of white paper, questioning the void.
    Once, on a cloudy Friday in June, he was just about to nod off when it began to drizzle. He sat up, startled, stuck his newspaper over his head, whereas I, fortunately prepared, opened my umbrella, drew in my legs, and huddled under the protective shelter. First it dripped, then the drops soon turned into ribbons. He extended his hands into the rain, let the paper fall, closed his eyes. I watched as the water collected in his hands. He had formed